Blue
by moogleizer
Summary: Izaya is granted one last phone call before it all ends. The idea tickles him. Just who do his captors think is so important to him? He isn't even sure of the answer himself...One-shot. Character study.


_**moog: Even after some time on the shelf, this continues to not be intended as shizaya. Read it that way if you choose, however. I really don't mind. I am a pro-shipper. ShipsShipsShipsShipsShips. Set sail. Ship away. Let none o' thy dream boats sink beneath the waves of contempt. Ahem. Anyway. The story. Right. Not much has changed. It's just...back. :/  
**_

_**Soundtrack: "Blue" by Mai Yamane**_

_**Disclaimer: The thug and the cigar are mine. Durarara! is not, however, mine. (weeps)**_

* * *

The greatest irony was that he couldn't remember how he got here. So many precautions taken to avoid exactly this, all his life lived in fear of just this moment, and yet here he was. Well. It was bound to happen someday. Just not like this. Not when it wasn't on his terms. His grin translated his full confidence in the slightness of his miscalculation. The tightness in his chest weighed him down with the futility of his situation. The heart really was a useless and annoying organ. Such a shame that he relied on it to keep him alive

The deep red flicker of a cigar illuminated the vague shapes surrounding him in the darkness. The one holding the nasty thing took a long drag of it.

"Look at you," said the smoker, taking a step forward. "A muzzled wolf backed into a cage, a gun pointed right between your ugly yellow eyes. Can't say I'm surprised, though. You had it coming to you, Orihara."

Izaya shrugged, the sweat tickling as it rolled down his back. Funny that he should be sweating right now. He felt cold enough to turn to ice.

The owner of the cigar, a slim, dark-haired young man in a gray suit, stepped forward and held out the glowing stick to his captive.

"Care for a drag?"

"No thanks," said Izaya through his grin. "I'm not inclined to poisoning my body with trash."

"Shame," said the man, taking another drag of his cigar. He blew the vaguely purple cloud of smoke into Izaya's face. Izaya didn't flinch. "You're missing out. It really helps calm the nerves. Comes in quite handy in situations like these. More for people in your position than in mine."

The annoying pump in Izaya's chest slammed itself against his ribcage as if trying to force its way out. He figured that this was what people meant when they stupidly said their hearts beat at a thousand miles per minute. It was irritating. His pounding heart, his shaking hands, his sweat, all of it. And the only thing he let his captors see was his utter lack of concern. That's all they'd ever know of him, he decided, up until the very end.

"Well then," said Izaya, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Just get it over with. Or if not, then let me go already. I don't have all night."

The man in the suit chuckled. "Don't act like it doesn't bother you," he said. "You'll never be at peace that way. And believe me, I want you to be at peace. I'm not a cruel man. Tell you what. To prove what a nice guy I am, I'll let you make one last phone call to whoever you want. Now, isn't that kind of me? You have seven minutes. Better make them count." He waved his hand, and the men who up until then had been pointing five shiny guns in Izaya's direction all lowered their weapons and turned around. The man with the cigar stayed watching him, smiling genially behind the cloud of smoke around his face.

It was a cruel jest, Izaya mused, slipping his cell phone out of his pocket. There was no one he could call, no one in the world he cared to say goodbye to, or who would even care to say goodbye to him. The suited man knew this. Izaya laughed, feeling waves of nausea form tight knots in his stomach. His breath came short from his tightening chest, but he wouldn't let his knees shake, because no matter what happened, no matter what they gained from killing him, the men who cornered Izaya Orihara would never have the satisfaction of seeing him weak. Izaya scrolled through the contact list, passing by the numbers of every person he ever interacted with, even if they were old nobodies he'd known in elementary school. All the filaments of humanity he'd ever touched remained there as white numbers on a black screen, memories without sentiment.

And then there were the names that meant something. Something? No, they were barely anything at all. Yet still, unlike the others they were more than empty letters cradling inconsequential excuses for personalities.

Celty Sturluson. Shinra Kishitani. His horrid little sisters.

He wouldn't call the Dullahan. What would be the point? Her bleeding heart would only feel sorry for him, and the last thing he needed was her sympathy. She would try to save him, and not only would she fail, but he'd leave the world with the impression that he had wanted to be saved. That sort of ending would be too pathetic.

He wouldn't call Shinra, either. If Izaya had a friend in the world it was Shinra Kishitani, which was precisely why he couldn't call him. The last thing he needed before dying was to _feel_. To feel in a situation like this was dangerous. It might make him cling to life all the harder, and that was no way to go either. He hoped Shinra would never have to find out. Let him believe that Izaya had grown sick of Japan and decided to pick up and disappear. Let Shinra go on living without having to wonder who it was that finally shot 'that damned informant' dead. Izaya wouldn't admit what the worst part of calling Shinra would be.

_What if he didn't care?_

No. Izaya knew already who he wanted to call. The irony of his choice left him reeling, but that man was the only person in the world he could talk to with any sincerity of feeling. Shizuo Heiwajima may have hated him more than anyone could ever possibly hate another human being, but that was _something_, and if anyone at all would be moved by Izaya's death it would be that raging bull-beast of a man. Where would all that hatred go when the object of it was no longer around? It was a fascinating study, oh, it was too bad that Izaya wouldn't be around to witness the results. It was a sincere regret that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

_Ring. Ring._

_Click._

"Yeah?"

Izaya was amused that after all this time Shizuo still had not saved Izaya's number to his phone, and so inevitably answered every time he called. It was a good thing neither Celty nor Shinra ever told him how to block a number.

"Hello, Shizu-chan," Izaya breathed.

A low growl issued into his ear. "You damned flea. What the hell are you calling me for?"

"Now, now, no need to be so hostile. I haven't done anything this time."

"That's bullshit."

Izaya met the eyes of the man wearing the suit, who tapped his wristwatch with a small smile. His heart gave another hard lurch against his chest, and he wondered if the damned thing would kill him before the guns ever got the chance.

"Actually, Shizu-chan," Izaya went on, "I'm afraid our longstanding game of cat-and-mouse has finally come to an end. I'm calling to say goodbye. Aren't you glad? After tonight, I'll never set foot in your precious 'Bukuro ever again."

"What," Shizuo sneered. "Finally fleeing Japan, huh? Doesn't matter. I'll find you no matter where you run to. I'll crush you like the damned filthy flea you are."

Honestly, Shizuo Heiwajima had no class. He really was little more than a rampaging animal. Normally that part of him grated on Izaya's nerves like no other. Not today, though. Today he even missed it, if only a little.

"There's no need," said Izaya, meeting the gaze of his captor. "Someone's already beat you to it. Isn't that too bad? I always thought if anyone ever got me, it would be you. Oh well. That's just the way it goes, I guess."

For a moment, the only audible sound was static. After awhile Izaya was sure Shizuo had hung up. It was no surprise. He hadn't expected much else. He was just about to lower the phone when Shizuo's voice came through in a low, dark tone.

"Where are you?"

"Why?" Izaya asked, fighting like hell to keep the grin in his voice. "Going to help finish me off?"

His thumb came down on the power button before the temptation to give away his location became too strong. There was a beep, and then the line went dead. Izaya chuckled, slipping the phone back into his pocket. So much for that. Not even a last barrage of hatred to send him off into…

…Into what? Hell? Nothingness? His body stiffened with cold at the idea of non-existence. He inhaled sharply, silently, through his teeth.

"I must say, Orihara," drawled the man in the suit. "I'm surprised." He snapped his fingers, and the men with guns all turned back around. They each had about as much expression as the crumbling concrete around them. "I honestly expected you to contact Namie, or even your sisters. But the monster Heiwajima Shizuo? You are certainly full of surprises."

Izaya did not deign to acknowledge him, not even with a shrug. Grinning, at this point, was too much effort. He kept a level stare, neither accusatory nor afraid. Even if his chest hurt, even if his knees were so loose that the looseness traveled up into his stomach, through his spine, and crushed his lungs, his eyes were ice. They would be as icy in these last moments of life as they would be in death.

The young man in the suit smiled good-naturedly and tipped his hat, looking, for a moment, apologetic. But it was only for a moment. Whatever apology may have flickered at the edge of his mouth turned quickly to mirth.

"Well then, Orihara. This is farewell. I do hope that someone, somewhere out there will miss you. Really, I do. I highly doubt it, though."

The man stepped back, and Izaya kept his gaze locked firmly on that face—that face he'd remember even onto death goddamn it, even if he remembered nothing else. The man turned around.

~xXx~

There was an explosion of sound. Lights like a thousand fireworks, or the bursting of a thousand stars. The world came to an end, and that was when he saw it. Blue. Blue glistening everywhere, like light refracted off a universe of sapphires. In every sapphire a white light, so cold it burned. The blue spun him, wrapped him, filled him. Consumed him. It was the blue, gathering light at the edges of his vision, that cushioned his fall. And he _did_ fall. He watched himself fall, watched the concrete ceiling above roll away from him like skin peeling back. He watched his life rush through him, that same fierce azure burning bright — it shot through him like a beam and filled his stomach with the feeling of collapse. There were butterflies. Butterflies hatching in his abdomen, swirling up through his chest, nuzzling his throat. Watching the world fall away…It was like flying. He was almost flying…

No. Of course he wasn't.

His spine splintered when he hit the ground. All breath left him, and the blue faded. At the very least he fell laughing. He couldn't help himself.

What made him think that a man like him could ever have wings?

~xXx~

It's taking forever. Tearing through the streets like this, never a problem before. But now?

Thugs want a fight, whatever. Only in the way. Can't move fast enough.

Easiest to start in 'Bukuro. Damned flea is always there, pulling strings, causing trouble. Pissing Shizuo off. Easiest to tear through their usual spots, check every shadow and back-alley for a sign of that trash. And when he finds him, the world be damned if he doesn't punch his face in.

Not in 'Bukuro, then. Must have swept the area twice. Or if Izaya is here, he isn't anywhere he's loitered before.

Call the office. Not there, either. Namie hasn't seen him since the morning of the day before. Call Celty. She hasn't heard from him recently. Neither has Shinra.

Fuck, where is he?

Okay. Okay. Think.

Tom calling. Getting complaints about Shizuo destroying things. So he opened up a couple shortcuts through the city to speed up his search. So what?

Yeah, yeah. Violence is bad. He hadn't done it on purpose. But he has a bad feeling.

Can't name it. Never bothers naming feelings, just feels them. That's their purpose anyway, right? To be felt. No point complicating the matter further. This feeling—the suffocation, the ringing in the ears, the blinding flashes of white light—it's bad. That's all he needs to know.

The ringing started when Izaya called. High and shrill. A warning.

The flashing, that started with the word "goodbye." Goodbye, he'd said. Flash. Gone.

The suffocation…that took longer. Shizuo isn't sure when that started. He thinks maybe at, "That's just the way it goes," but it might have been before that. It might have been there all along, with the ringing and the flashing, but it just wasn't heavy enough until then. All he knows is that the longer he takes to find the flea, the harder it gets to breathe. The harder it gets to think.

Shinjuku, then. Where else? Has to be Shinjuku.

Pass a group of men in suits. One smoking a half-crumbled cigar. Smell of spice on him, spice and lavender smoke. Blood in his eyes. Blood in his eyes. Those eyes widen, and the lips beneath them spread into a slow smile. A winning smile. A smile that topples kings and rules the world.

Ringing, high and shrill. Warning. White lights flashing.

Shizuo runs.

Shinjuku, sure enough. The ringing takes him to a dark spot, a dusty lot with nothing but a crumbling old parking structure sinking in the middle like a brittle old geezer on a saggy chair. Padlocked. Fenced up. Crooked sign on the front says the place'll be demolished. Punch down the fence—no time to look for the gate—, tear the chains off the structure's boarded entrance. Kick down the boards. Dust flies.

First floor empty. Rubble everywhere.

Second floor, emptier. A few pillars fallen. A hole in the ceiling. Moonlight shining through. It's vaguely blue.

The third floor is where he finds him. Didn't see him at first, it's so dark. He lay amidst a pile of rubble, away from the moonlight, crumpled like a dirty rag. Shizuo runs to him. Takes the limp little flea up in his arms and shakes him. "Hey, you bastard."

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh—

Blood everywhere. His torso's shredded like…oh god, he doesn't want to think _what _it's shredded like. How many bullets for one man?

"If you're alive, you better say something."

Izaya makes a low, gurgling sound deep in his throat. He's choking.

No.

He's laughing.

Where's the nearest hospital? Where is…?

"Hey," Shizuo grunts. "Pull yourself together. Just what the hell happened, anyway?"

Have to keep him talking. Have to keep his eyes open. The hospital…

Something wet falls on his hand. He looks down. The flea is crying. Tears stream from his eyes in a torrent, but his grin is the same as ever. That face, pale and covered with blood. He looks like a demon.

Izaya whispers then. It's a whisper that makes Shizuo's boiling blood run cold.

"I'm scared," he says. "I'm so scared it hurts. Ha ha ha."

"You had it coming to you," Shizuo can't say. And why the hell isn't he moving yet? Why the hell isn't he tearing Shinjuku apart for that hospital?

He only has to look at Izaya to know. Body torn apart. No blood left. That smile is the smile of death.

After all this time. After all this goddamn time, Izaya Orihara is going to die.

~xXx~

Even this close to death, Izaya did not believe in God. He wondered about it briefly, when the men in suits had gone and the moonlight shone far, far away from him, but he could not bring himself to accept an omnipotent orchestrator of life. God was an invention to comfort the weak. Still, he almost wished he _could_ believe in God and in Heaven, because maybe then this whole thing wouldn't be so damn _depressing._

Then again, if he did believe in God, the only place for him would be Hell. Now, wouldn't that be something?

And just when did Shizuo get here, anyway? He brought the blue back, at least. That really was something. Shizuo's face showed nothing. Izaya couldn't tell if it was the sunglasses or if his mortal enemy really didn't give a damn about him. Either way, it was…comforting. That blankness. Like there was nothing to fear.

Oh, but he was afraid. He was hellishly afraid. He said as much. Didn't mean to say it, but he did. And Shizuo's lip twitched. That made Izaya laugh all the harder. The pain was so sharp it was numbing, but he couldn't stop himself. The laughter was endless, beyond his control. So were the tears. Oh well. He was well past the point of shame.

The heart that had been pounding so fiercely before was dragging along now. Rather than an engine, it felt like a baby's fist pounding a slow, slow rhythm against his chest. He forgot how to breathe. Or maybe he stopped caring.

"Hey, Shizu-chan," he said, letting the words slide out on a last, shuddering exhale. "Don't be too lonely without me."

Shizuo's grip on him tightened just for a moment. Izaya almost thought it would be enough to keep him there, to keep whatever it was inside of him that made him living stay inside of him, but soon after he was falling again.

This time, he didn't stop.

_**Fin**_


End file.
